


children don't always live

by Izzylike



Series: If You Go Out in the Woods Today [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Heavy Angst, Miscarriage and Aftermath, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 11:28:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15095780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzylike/pseuds/Izzylike
Summary: a heart can stop.(alternatively titled: grief in one part; your substance abuse won't bring your child back rickon)





	children don't always live

           It's an odd feeling when Rickon realizes that they've been dating on-and-off for most of his life. He's known her for the full of it. Ever since he could toddle, he's known Maege's youngest girl. Fuck, even before then, must have come out of the womb knowing Lya. It's an utterly strange thing to realize, at least it would be were this any other circumstance. Of course, he realizes this in the hospital waiting room, so maybe it's not all that odd. Maybe it's just panic setting in, terror that Lyanna might leave him forever. His mouth dries — has been dry? — he tries to swallow but there's a lump in his throats making it feel impossible. Lyanna can't leave him. His heart is pounding so hard he can hear the palpitations thundering in his ears, the blood rushing deafening him to the rest of the world. He suddenly feels like ice water was poured directly in to his guts while his skin is burning up, sweat accumulates on his forehead. Something inside him knows he has to try and breath, but he finds that he's already taking in air, calm and rhythmic despite himself. There is a numb filter on the world, almost as if time has slowed to a crawl when usually there isn't enough in the day. 

Real bile rises in his throat but he swallows it down thickly, acid burning on its down. A bead of sweat breaks free and travels down his temple. His once rushing heart has slowed. Everything is slow now, like a shitty joint meant to liven people up instead making him realize how dim and fucking shit everything was. Across the waiting room, a woman — blackening right eye, busted lower lip, holding her left arm — stares straight ahead, beyond him, not even registering his presence. A man is trying to comfort his sobbing, shrieking toddler while the man who'd come in with him talks angrily, animatedly to the nurse at the desk. A nurse sprints by, not sparing a glance in any direction as she uses her key card to get through the doors. His life is falling apart and no one seems to give a fuck, because their lives are falling apart too.   

The clock on the wall is useless because he can't even remember when they got into the emergency room, anywhere from minutes to hours. He hadn't thought to take note of the time, and it's only just dawning on him that that was a stupid ass decision. His left leg has begun to jiggle 

           Lyanna doesn't speak, curled up on her side, facing towards the window. She doesn't acknowledge that he's entered her room or sat before her. For a moment he's terrified that she's died too, but the fabric of her hospital gown rise and fall rhythmically as she stares at something he cannot see. He sits there for an hour. She doesn't move from her spot, doesn't say anything to him. Maybe he's the dead one here. It sure fucking feels like it. 

The ticking of the clock serves only to twist his guts around inside him. He needs her to fucking say something, his brain feels like it's filled with angry bees. 

"Go home, Rickon." The words are so sudden and soft that he startles. Then he bristles, the flurry of emotions swirling in his throat, but before he can speak she continues. "Please. Just leave me alone."

With that his fight leaves him, and he stands, reaching out a hand to touch her before pulling away just as quickly. 

            His son is perfect. A tuft of auburn hair crowns his head. His finger nails are all formed on each of his fingers and toes. He's got kinda skinny limbs, but it's endearing, especially when taking into consideration his round little tummy. Rickon wants to hold him but can't seem to move forward, he's so entranced by his son's beauty. Maybe if he held him he could say something, do something, again. A mirthless chuckle escapes, because he still can’t believe he and Lyanna made such a perfect kid. Images of him in their flat, being comforted and loved, fill Rickon’s head. The reality is hitting him again, and he desperately needs something to dull the world. Pale skin looks even paler in contrast to his blue veins and lips. Eyes shut, never having opened. His mind bitterly flashes to that stupid bit of flash fiction — "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Why the fuck was Hemingway always given credit for that? Fucking tosser, what had he ever done but worried about his vitality and given his gun a blowjob? His leaden limbs can't hold the body, even though he wants to try.

Their son was perfect.

           His phone had been notifying him nonstop, so he'd turned it off and sat in the dark in the apartment he'd shared with Lya. The second bottle of cheap whiskey is room temp and disgusting, but that'd never stopped him before. Shaggydog whines from his spot on the floor, pawing at Rickon's leg in a futile attempt to get a reaction. Taking a swig, he uses his free hand to pat Shag's head. And then his gaze shifts to the pile on the floor. 

The newborn clothes that he'd been folding when everything had gone to shit are laying exactly where he'd left them in the living room. It feels like they're mocking him. Tilting his head back, Rickon empties the bottle of it's content and makes to stand, nudging the pup away as gently as he could when the world was a little sepia-toned. He stumbles making his way to the kitchen, of course he does. 

He'd meant to look for another bottle to drink, instead he stands staring into the cabinets. His hand closes around a glass and he examines it. A slight chip was missing from the rim, though it was smooth and had never cut anyone who'd used it. Tightening his grip, he lets out a guttural scream before lobbing it to the floor with all his strength. It shatters, of course it does. Shaggy's barking but Rickon keeps screaming, until he needs oxygen. Then he pants, swallows back the whiskey vomit that's raising, and stands straight.

"Shaggy." The malamute pauses in his barking, before whining, letting out another bark, then shuffling forward. He stops when Rickon holds up a hand, unwilling to let his dog cross into the kitchen. "Good boy."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Shaggy's ears perk up and his tail wags happily. "Go lay down." The wagging slows but Shaggy's obedience has him turning to go into the bedroom. 

The glass shards crunch beneath his boots as he walks to the front door. 

           Time and alcohol and what he can only presume was coke blur everything together. Blood splatters against his cheek. That's what he comes back to. He slams his fist into the guy's face again, knowing his knuckles have busted open, toothy grin feral and stretched across his face. He needs to make this bastard look how he feels. He needs torn muscles and broken teeth. Put a crown of rose thorns around his neck and he'll strangle the fucker with it, pop holes in his windpipe, tear the flesh and drag the barbs through it till he's bled out. Mind flashes to dog attacks. He could shred his face, look into the red meat behind his bloody skin. Could preform a magic trick of turning the cunt's blonde hair red that'll age to a rust. Pale skin that had never seen the light of day, with veins that didn't pump blood. Blue lips. Half curled fists resting midair in rigamortis. The images need to stop. This fucker needs to make them stop. His vision blurs before he blinks it straight, wetness that wasn't the blood trailing down his face, clear liquid becoming tainted red as it descends. He wants to claw his own flesh off to release whatever the fuck is going on inside of him. Snot is streaming from his nostrils, so he sucks oxygen through his mouth. He wants it to stop.

"Ya gonna kill 'im?"

The voice is hoarse but he'd know it anywhere. The grin that had been faltering returned with a vengeance, sharp teeth on display as he turns to her. It's a shock. She looks a mess. Pale and somewhat gaunt, as if she were emptied out then shoved back together haphazardly. _Wasn't that what'd happened?_ Her shirt hangs on her form, looking like it's just about to slip down off her shoulder. Her gaze is so empty, exhausted. 

"Then let's go home, Rickon."

**Author's Note:**

> i'd actually been working on this fic for over a little over two years now but found myself unable to finish it due to my own grief for that time
> 
> likely my last aSoIaF for a while, i've just lost interest in the series at current time.


End file.
